


They're laughing like children, just like old times

by TheBlackWook



Category: Football RPF
Genre: 30 days of Domestic fluff, Football Challenge, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-07-15 04:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 16,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackWook/pseuds/TheBlackWook
Summary: Pippo is struggling with Bologna. Bobo is there. It feels weird and right all at the same time.





	1. #1 Waking Up Together

**Author's Note:**

> Let's join in the fun !

Pippo wakes up to the sound of snoring and a slight headache : he might have drunk last night, but he is professional enough not to abuse it, especially when he will be needed in the afternoon. He stirs and finally open his eyes. 

It’s Bobo. Of course it’s him, that shouldn’t even be a surprise. Yet, he still wonders how they ended up naked in his bed, in his new house in Bologna. He knows, if he is honest with himself – and that might be difficult with Bobo being right there next to him, snoring and reminding him why – but he prefers not to dwell on it now.

  


It’s nothing really. And at this point in his life and career, it really shouldn’t get to him like that ; he has known defeats and things not going according to plan in his career. Hell, he has known worse than that and he always came back. 

But this, this feels different.

Maybe it is the fact he is back in Serie A after Milan, that he did so well with Venezia that a lot of hopes are put on his shoulders. Maybe it is the fact that the tables have turned between his brother and him. He is doing great with Lazio, everyone says and it’s true. He, on the other hand, is struggling – and that might be an understatement.

No.

He could never blame his brother or be jealous of him. He loves him too much for that and he is thriving to see him succeed like he does. He just wished he could do the same with Bologna. Honestly, he has everything at his disposal to do a good season and bring the club back into top ten. Yet, something’s missing. Maybe he is a bad coach ? The idea crosses his mind before he shakes it away. He has known worse and it is only the beginning of the season. There is time. At least, he hopes there is. 

Sigh.

He turns to Bobo, still disrupting the peaceful quietness of the room with his snoring. 

Watching his bare chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm brings back memories of a long time ago, when they were young and carefree – but when hasn’t Bobo been carefree ? – and with the hunger to bring the world down at their feet. He remembers similar mornings, some in Coverciano or wherever they were playing, sharing a bedroom and quickly far more, laughing quietly – as quiet as Bobo could be anyway – at everyone else, blissfully unaware of this development. Or maybe they were ; Pippo has to admit they had never been particularly discreet with their embraces and occasional kisses on the cheek. But then again, discreet and Bobo Vieri did not really belonged together in the same sentence. 

It makes him chuckle silently as he still looks at his lover.

He remembers other mornings, spent in either of their place in Milan. Thinking about it, it would have made the headlines, had anyone learnt : Rival Teams Strikers Involved in Secret Romance. He could almost picture it.

He remembers mornings when he was always the first one to wake up – some things never change – and Bobo always trying to bargain for more sleep time, for more time together in bed. Pippo smirks, thinking of the heated morning embraces, sheets crumpled, they would share. It was usually Bobo’s way to keep him in bed, though he was happy to oblige and rarely ever refused. 

Good times.

He also remembers the last mornings, the ones where they were mostly silent, each with a lot on their mind and their career and ambition eating their relationship up. He remembers the way they argued, both too hot-headed for their own good. 

Going back to speaking terms and friendship had been easy; they always had too much fun together. Falling back into bed together for more than just a hug or a game of cards feels weird, however. Not that he complains because, it has always been… great; not to brag but they have always been amazing together in bed. So no, it’s not the sex he minds. Maybe, he thinks, it’s just the memories and what could happen. 

Maybe he’s afraid. 

Afraid they will just repeat the same damn mistakes, afraid to lose his best friend. Afraid to get hurt again. As much as he might have been a selfish prick back then – at times, mind you – the way things ended between them had left him scarred with an emptiness he had never felt before. It had taken him time to get better afterwards : losing himself into work had helped and maybe he should thank him for his brace against Liverpool. Just maybe.

He can’t help brushing his finger against his skin, tracing the lines of his tattoos, old and new alike. He is still firm and strong despite his belly being softer now. To be fair, Pippo quite likes it. 

Bobo can wait long before he will admit that out loud.

Pippo has always liked to take a moment to watch him and touch him when he is still asleep. He looks so peaceful, so calm; far from the tornado he is every single day. It’s these moments he likes where he simply is himself, no mask to wear. He almost feels silly, biting his bottom lip like a teenager as he smiles.

  


It’s really weird how Bobo can make him smile a lot like that. He doesn’t really want to think about it.

He turns on his back again, staring at the ceiling. He is still unsure about what to do or say when he wakes up. 

Seriously, he could have chosen a better partner for the night than one of the legend of the club that just humiliated his team. As if losing against Inter was not painful enough… But he had been there somehow, when they arrived back in Bologna. No warnings beforehand but Pippo had just went along with it, too tired to even ask or argue.

He doesn’t realize Bobo has woken up until he talks :

“Hey...”

Pippo turns his head to him. They’re both lying on their back, apparently fascinated by the soft paint above them. They make quite the pair. 

“You feelin’ better ?” He resumes

He sighs. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure sleeping with a man whom Inter convinced to stay for more than one season isn’t my smartest idea.” 

He smirks and Bobo nudges his side, amused and falsely offended. Pippo falls silent, studying the ceiling once again. He feels the mattress moving under him and he shifts his glance to see his lover on his side, leaning on his elbow. He has that smile, the tender one – yes, he still remembers these kind of things and he really doesn’t want to think about why is that – the one he only had for him, the one he had whenever he thought he wasn’t looking, the one he has seen behind closed doors, just the two of them and no one else.

He really needs to make his stomach stop feeling funny when he sees Bobo’s face like that. 

“Hey,” He begins softly, voice raspy, while his index draws circles on his chest absentmindedly. “You’re Pippo Fucking Inzaghi. You’ll figure it out. You always do. You’ll get even stronger and you’ll show them. Every legend begins with missteps.” He ends, looking him right in the eye.

Pippo almost takes a sharp intake of breath. Instead, he smiles, genuinely. 

“Thanks, Bobo.”

“Anytime, you know that.” He says before ruffling his hair and kissing his cheek as he always does.

The moment may be gone but at least, Pippo thinks, he can dwell about everything else later on.

“What d’you have for breakfast ?” Bobo asks as he gets out of bed, while he grabs his underwear, making a point to put it on slowly. 

Bastard. Pippo smirks nonetheless.

“I don’t think you’ll like it.” He raises an eyebrow, perfectly aware Bobo will understand. And it does not fail.

“I swear if I see the cupboard full of your damn _Plasmon_ I’ll throw them in the bin.”

“No you won’t !” Pippo answers as he quickly grabs his own underwear.

They’re rushing to the kitchen, laughing like children, just like old times. 

It feels good.


	2. #2 Morning Routine

He always had routines. 

When he was a child, he would check on Simone first thing in the morning, – if he was too excited, as one might, he would wake him up, shaking him forcefully – then he would go to the bathroom to wash his face and come to the kitchen to eat his breakfast that either one of his parents had prepared. It usually came down to Plasmons and milk, however hard they tried to make him eat something else.

Later on, as he began his career, he was as sharp as a clockwork : setting the alarm at six, a workout, then a shower, breakfast and off to the morning practice : his parents would take him first, then he did once he finally got his license. The old car is still stocked somewhere in the garage of his parents’ home in Piacenza, he couldn’t bring himself to sell it, it was special to him. And he had enough money over the years to make the necessary repairs to still make it work today. He always take it out for a ride when he visits his family; that’s also part of the routine he realises. 

When Bobo waltzed into his life, it was different. 

Pippo suspected that man never had a clear calculated schedule in his entire life. It was always five more minutes this and we’re not rushed that. That didn’t mean he wasn’t serious or focused during trainings, far from it. But everything else was kind of putting a bit of everything left in a fridge into a frying pan and hoping for a good meal. 

At the beginning, it gave Pippo nightmares. They both made efforts and they settled like that. 

It had been freeing in a way, to let go of everything whenever they were together, to stop acting like a robot and be himself. Bobo had always managed to calm him down whenever he was running late or whenever a mug or a toothbrush would be misplaced and throw all his schedule off. At the end, it had been a subject of dispute, but he had never made fun of him about it unlike some others had in the past. 

Now, routine still rhymes with carefully constructed schedule and that also includes Bobo flooding his DM on instagram – he loves that thing, seriously – every morning with ridiculous videos and wishes for a good day. 

It never fails to make him chuckle.

And if he looks at them several times and saves some of them to cheer him up on bad days, nobody will complain to see him smile more.


	3. #3 Doing Laundry

“Fuck !” He exclaims, slamming the laundry basket on the ground.

Bobo comes and pokes a head by the doorframe : “Everything alright ?”

“You can see it’s not.” Pippo angrily gestures to the ground where a puddle of water is leaking from the washing machine. “The machine is broken.”

Bobo quickly takes a hold of the basket before water can wet it and rushes to the cupboard. If he remembers Pippo’s way of storage, towels should be exactly on the bottom left shelf. 

Bingo.

He comes back and put them on the ground to contain the leaking and wipe the floor. Pippo is still pissed, he should have known better than to keep the old landlord’s machine when he signed the lease. And of course it’s Sunday, there is no way it will get fixed before tomorrow at the very least. 

“I should have bought a new one.” He says, crossing his arms on his chest. 

“Machines break all the time, Pippo.” Bobo offers.

“Yes but Sunday is laundry day ! And now, the machine is broken, my clothes aren’t even washed and smell. Plus, I don’t have much else to wear...” He replies, antsy.

Ah. Yes, laundry day. He wanted to say it did not matter when it was done but, he was talking to the man whose schedule was calculated to the minute, after all; he knew better than to say anything. 

It wasn’t on Sundays before, that much Bobo can tell. Maybe it was on Mondays or Fridays, he doesn’t really remembers. What he recalls is Pippo even cancelling or rescheduling plans just so that he could do his laundry when he had decided to do it. He has long learnt not to comment on any of this, it was just so Pippo; he was fine with it. Frustrating at times, yes, but Pippo wouldn’t be his Pippo without it. 

Bobo sighs and puts a reassuring hand on Pippo’s arm :

“It’s okay. There’s surely an opened laundrette somewhere. Let’s go there. You want that ?”  


Pippo nods and relaxes with his friend’s hand squeezing his biceps gently. As untidy as he may be, he always knows how to save things and help him focus.

They end up driving all through the town, Google Maps apparently not a reliable help with laundrettes marked as opened only for them to find them closed or abandoned. It does nothing to help Pippo’s fidgeting and frustration but Bobo just put the volume of the radio higher and sings and dances even harder, earning huffs and smirks from his passenger.

 

They found one, eventually, after an hour, maybe more. They’ve lost count.

There is no one in there and they sit quietly on a bench, watching the drum going in circles at high speed. It makes Bobo think about a similar situation that happened once in Coverciano. They only were friends at the time – but not for long – and Pippo had stained a worn out white under-shirt with some cream. He had freaked out, just as he had an hour earlier, maybe more; Bobo had never seen anyone being this upset for dirty laundry. The lanky young man then had insisted to go and get it washed in the minute, he did not care if he had to do it himself. Bobo had argued that there were people that could do it in the morning but Pippo had not budged one bit, no matter if it was almost midnight.

And that’s the story of how they spent an hour sneaking out into the laundry room in Coverciano and Bobo taking Pippo’s hand in his for the first time, trying to comfort an agitated friend. More than a friend.

“You know what it reminds me of ?” He breaks the silence

“Uh ?” Pippo answers, confused.

“This.” Bobo gestures to the machine in front of them and he gets it. “That made me thought of that night in Coverciano.”

“My under-shirt.” He nods in understanding, a hidden smirk on his face.

“You know, I never did get why it got you in such a state.”

He chuckles. “You could have asked.”

“You seemed upset. I only wanted to be there for you.” He confesses.

Pippo looks at him with shiny eyes, laughter forgotten. This is new. He had never been this opened before. Of course, there had been tender moments, sweet nothings whispered in the dark at times, but they had never really talked about their feelings like this. 

He glances away; he does not trust himself to do much more unless he wants to release all the accumulated tension all at once.

“It was my lucky under-shirt. I had it since my debut with Piacenza. Still have it. I wore it for all important games, for good luck.”

Bobo laughs, head thrown back. “Why am I not even surprised ?”

Pippo nudges his shoulder. “You’re used to me.”

They both smile for a while before silence falls again. It’s never awkward. Silence is always easy and agreeable between them.

The program is almost finished when Bobo speaks again :

“Today. Why did it make you so upset ? Why is it so important to do it today and not any other day ?”

Pippo fidgets with his hands, playing with a crease on his pants. Bobo’s tone is sincere, he knows he just wants to understand, no mocking here.

The bigger man thinks he will not respond for he says nothing for a long while until he finally answers :

“It’s just… When things go dire, it’s a thing I can control. I can’t control a lot, these days. It’s not like I could just go on the pitch and try to score myself.” Bologna. No victory and no goals yet, it’s stressing him out. “So doing laundry every Sundays, it reassures me in a way, you know ?”

Bobo nods and offers him an encouraging smile.

“Well, I, for one, believe in you. Things will get better, you’ll see.”

It’s Pippo who takes Bobo’s hand and intertwine their fingers this time.


	4. #4 Night In

Pippo welcomes the international break with open arms. Well… As much as he can while he still worries for the few players of his team who have been called up. He really could not lose a player on an injury at the moment. 

He really is not sure if the break will help him rest or if he will get even more tired than he already is. 

He does not have the luxury to dwell on the matter more when the doorbell is ringing. It is past eight in the evening and he is not expecting anyone. He was planning on having a quiet night in, go over a few files to prepare the game against Genoa in two weeks and maybe watch some television.

He is only half surprised to find Bobo on the doorstep when he opens.

“I should have guessed it was you.”

“Oh yes, I’m so happy to see you too, Pippo. I’m fine, thank you for asking. You ?” He answers with a witty smirk.

“Please. I’m just saying, for someone who is working in the US, you’re spending quite a lot of time here.” He raises his eyebrow.

“Well, I was born here, you know. I have family to visit.” Which family members, he doesn’t specify. Then he tilts his head on the side, pouting “But I can leave, you know. It’s too bad this dinner will go to waste.” Bobo shows him the paper bag he is carrying, smelling of tomato sauce and basil.

Pippo rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. “Don’t be silly. Come in.” 

And he grabs his arm to pull him inside to Bobo’s delight. Maybe he likes it to see him on such a regular basis – more so than usual – and maybe he grips his arm a bit too tight for a friend, but that is a whole other story he is not quite ready to read.

Bobo puts the bag on the counter and starts rummaging through Pippo’s kitchen for cutlery. It almost feels natural, as if nothing had changed between them throughout all these years – and starts wondering if they have, in fact. Once they got around, they acted almost exactly like before, love mentions excepted and sex being more spare. But still, it makes the lanky man stop for a second, looking at his best friend as if he had always been there, seeming in his element, knowing almost perfectly where everything is. 

He feels something in his chest. He wants to ignore it.

“I know how you love bresaola but you ate so much of it through the years they’ve run out.” Bobo jokes, opening boxes of hot spaghetti in tomato sauce with leaves of basil and a slight touch of Parmesan cheese.

Pippo chuckles. “Idiot.” He mutters but his friend hears it anyway and his smile broadens. 

He missed it. He is feeling all kind of weird facing this realisation. 

They eat on the couch, next to one another while television is showing whatever british show they happen to broadcast on the cable. 

 

Half an hour later and Pippo is sitting against the armrest of the couch, his long legs stretched out and ending on Bobo’s lap, notebook and pen in hand to elaborate tactics and trainings – there is a new wrinkle on his forehead. Bobo’s hands are loosely resting on his ankles.

It’s so very domestic and he is panicked for a brief instant of what all of this could probably mean. Bobo brings him back to the moment :

“Pippoooo… Come on. Stop working.” He’s singing his name while he slightly massages from his shin-bone to his ankle, then trying to tickle his feet.

“You don’t want a kick in the face.” Pippo warns.

Of course he does not stop. Pippo wiggles until he breaks free and tries to tickle back. It’s all very messy and a mix of limbs all over the sofa. 

They end up falling on the floor and laughing for minutes on end, carefree and breathless. They look way younger than they seem and it is as if they turned back time to when they were young and happy lovers with a blossoming relationship. It is out of control and unapologetic. It feels good.

It’s moments like these when Pippo wonders if it hasn’t stayed like this all along, in fact, only waiting for them to let it come out again.

They calm down and sit back on the couch, next to one another, to pay attention to the television. Bobo’s arm is resting behind the coach’s head. Pippo does not mind. 

 

It’s late, almost too late for Pippo when Bobo offers to call it a night. Pippo has not waited and he’s already fast asleep, his head against the strong man’s shoulder.

He looks peaceful, beautiful. Bobo smiles. 

He puts a strand of hair behind his ear and caresses his forehead softly. He saw the creases. People really need to stop making him worry like that. 

He lifts him up in his arms like he weighs nothing and carries him bridal style to his bedroom. He tries to take him out of his t-shirt; he is struggling but he manages. He takes his own off as well and lay down, bringing Pippo to his chest, safely secured in his arms.

And maybe, just maybe, Pippo stops thinking and tighten his grip on Bobo’s chest and goes closer to him, if it is even possible. He is here and that is enough for tonight.


	5. #5 Nighttime Routine

Just as he carefully manufactured his days, night time was no different. He must admit, though, that becoming a coach has made him learn to let loose on the schedule. He would go over past games, looking for the points to improve, and preparing the next, losing sleep to find the right combinations, the perfect tactics. 

People who knew him well would not believe him if he told them. Except Simone, always Simone. He knew all about the ordeal of becoming the master of the bench, where you sit not because you’re told to but because you chose it. Although they never went into details – some things were just meant to be kept at work, even more so when they were both in Serie A now – they knew enough as both coach and brothers to understand one another on a far deeper level with way fewer words. That’s how it had always been and he would not trade it for the world. 

He still kept a decorum of night-time routine of sorts, however off the clock he would sometimes get. Always the same.

First, tidying everything up swiftly, have every paper in the right place, and eat a Plasmon – digesting helped him fall asleep he said. Then a splash of water and some hydrating cream on his face – Nivea commercials did came in handy.

And when he was in a pair of sweat shorts, ready for the night, there was one thing left to do. 

Calling Bobo.

It was an hour when he would always manage to get away for a moment just to be able to facetime with Pippo. The frequency rise was new, however. They would call once every two weeks before, text any other day. But now, there was a dedicated spot to Bobo’s call in Pippo’s schedule as an unwritten rule, a cherry on the top of the cake that was his day, whether good or bad. 

He figures, that’s probably why he has stayed awake past his usual bedtime these last few weeks. He does not seem to care. 

Their discussions are playful – they always are, there is this comfort and ease between the two of them allowing them to do so – and Bobo worries about his health every time in between all his teasing and stories. Pippo rolls his eyes to avoid smiling. 

He does anyway and he does not fight it. There is a form of unabashed security and joy to notice all this, some comfort in knowing Bobo cares and that, more importantly, his trips to Miami are getting shorter and shorter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably adding Plasmon as a character in itself


	6. #6 Shopping (For Needs)

Grocery shopping was always pretty simple to Pippo, like a well-oiled machine. There were no surprises but the occasional impulse, spur of the moment that he very well knew how to restrain like a beast tamer. Over the years, his mental shopping list – he never needed to write this down, his trolley always ended up looking like a perfect copy of the previous ones – had expanded, mostly to cover needs of his nephews if he was needed on uncle duty by Simone. 

God, he loved these kids; he would do anything for them. He was always thrilled to spend time with them. Only with them would he share his precious Plasmons – and that was something, considering no one else, not even his brother or his parents were allowed to touch his biscuit boxes.

“Remind me why are we shopping now, at eight in the night ?” Bobo asks, not sure why he is here.

“It’s less crowded. And I need stuff if Simone takes the kids to visit me.” Pippo answers, not bothering to look at him, reading the ingredient list of some biscuits he knows Tommaso loves. 

“Pippo, your brother hasn’t even said anything about it yet. You could have waited until you had a proper date.” He tries to argue. 

It’s an already lost battle – always when it comes to the subject of his nephews – just like one of the wind against a mountain.

“But they will come. I’m pretty sure I’ll have to guest the entire family for my first dinner party at the house. Or so my mom says...” He mutters, a grimace on his face at the prospect of spending hours in the kitchen and having to answer to the most noisy side of his family. 

He loves them but, sometimes, he just wished they could stop playing personal journalists and paparazzi on his love life. 

“And anyway, there’s always space for a box or two of Plasmons.” He adds nonchalantly.

“You and your damn biscuits, I swear.” Bobo rolls his eyes in both disbelief and amusement, before he gets closer to his ear : “Though, I would gladly come to this dinner party. You know, help you bear it.”

“You are _not_ coming.” Pippo scoffs, finally looking at him. “You only want to pig out.”

Bobo laughs. “With you cooking ? I’ll more likely be starving.”

Pippo opens his mouth to retort something but stops himself and makes a face, resigned. He does have a point. Although he did learn to cook more varied dish than pasta and bresaola, he can’t say he is a chef. Quite the contrary. That actually partly explains why he ate the same thing everyday throughout his career.  


He doesn’t notice Bobo swiftly putting some crisp bags into the trolley. 

They arrive in the children aisle; they look so foreign to the area, yet, Pippo has his landmarks. He goes straight for the clothes.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit small for a teenager ?” Bobo asks, incredulous, as Pippo looks at three and four years old clothes.

“You do remember I have two nephews, right ?” Pippo replies, raising an eyebrow and looking both amused and offended.

Bobo slightly blushes. Pippo wants to kiss his cheek, he almost feels himself coming closer to Bobo. That would be so easy, so freeing. He can nearly see the details on his cheek : the slight stubble, a patch of skin being a bit redder from scratching it minutes ago.

He remembers where they are and instead he pinches his cheek. It’s his turn to blush.

“I quite like that one.” Bobo does not notice Pippo’s state, or maybe he has the courtesy not to comment it.

He is holding out a t-shirt with drawings of small and cute dinosaurs and Pippo can already picture himself playing the prehistoric beast while chasing the infant. He smiles fondly and nod. Something catches his eye then :

“What about these ?”

He is showing a matching pyjama sweater and pants with, unsurprisingly, some footballs and players in acrobatic poses. Bobo only eyes him knowingly and Pippo smirks more. Maybe - _maybe_ \- he will tell him to come to that dinner, so he can meet the youngest Inzaghi. And make an older one feel better prepared to face the entire family.

It feels kind of weird for Pippo to be discussing about kids while they choose a couple more clothes, yet, he feels like he is floating on a cloud and his heart skips a beat at the thought of Bobo with his nephews. With children. 

He shakes his head furiously to get out of reverie. This is a dangerous zone to explore, he is getting ahead of himself. Hell, he does not even know what he wants from all this ever since they woke up naked in his bed. Or maybe he has an idea, but that is still too soon to think about that.

 _Step by step_ , Simone had said. 

Not that he has talked about Bobo to his brother, mind you. They are as thick as thieves, no doubt, but he is past asking dating advice to his younger brother. No, he had said that about his struggle with Bologna. Game by game, day by day, step by step. Maybe he just needs to take one thing at a time with Bobo as well.

Sometimes, he thinks, he will die by Bobo’s hand way before a heart attack on the bench will. For now, he can just focus on the way he smirks and his face lit up once at the cashier when Pippo realizes he has been putting goods he definitely does not need into the trolley all along, like a kid tries to smuggle his way to get a toy.

Idiot. _His_ idiot.


	7. #7 Exercising

There was something to be said about the elegance of a man boxing, exerting his muscles in both agilitys and strength, letting their skin glisten with the efforts.  


Pippo was no different. 

His lanky frame allowed for swift movement, using his powerful legs to avoid an invisible hit, plunging right under, before stretching back up again and punching the bag. His wide black tank top let his shoulders uncovered and flattered the outline of his biceps – a surprising revelation for people who thought he was simply thin : he had defined muscles too. The lines on his skin were as sharp as ones on a classical statue by one of the renowned Renaissance master. He was simply art, in that one suspended moment. 

Bobo could not take his eyes off of him, forgetting he was even supposed to keep the punching bag stable. 

When Pippo had offered to join him for his usual five kilometers run, Bobo had thought the company would be agreeable. When he had asked if they could do such a circuit that they would end up at the gym where he did boxing training, Bobo had thought this would be a nice idea and maybe an occasion to exercise more. 

Well, he _was_ exercising in a way. Just not his body but rather his artistic appreciation.

He reckons, the boxing is quite new, he didn’t do any before. But, it was arguably to be blamed on their career taking all their time and making them follow – most of the times – strict rules. It was a thing he liked to do though, watching him exercising. 

He remembers a few occasions of physical training inside at Coverciano that turned him on way more than he would have thought. Once or twice, he suspected Pippo knew exactly what he was doing and stretched his legs a little bit wider or exaggerated the way he would catch his breath, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth wide open on purpose. A flashing neon light of the word obscene would not even have given the same effect.

“Bobo, are you even there ?” Pippo asked when the bag went flying out of his hands, almost knocking him in the head. 

He chuckled and hid behind the back to avoid showing his cheeks reddening. 

“Anyway, you’ve been chilling long enough. It’s time we switch place.” Pippo announced, putting his gloves off and handing them to Bobo. 

Their hands brushed. A pair of hands got partly covered by another.

It’s silly, really. These are just hands. But it takes them both by surprise when they lock gazes and they take in a breath. They are not even sure what they are supposed to do. Kiss ? Keep staring at one another forever ? 

They will never get a proper answer. Outside, a rumble of thunder makes them jump and the contact his gone. 

Bobo put on the gloves and prepared himself before the bag. 

“Well, if I remember your stamina correctly, let’s just try twenty full minutes at hundred percent. Show me you still got it in you, old man.” Pippo teases.

“Careful who you’re calling old man or I’ll crush you in a friendly match.” Bobo answers with the same gleeful amusement. 

“You wish, Vieri.”

Pippo is so very kissable when he is being a lanky smartass like that, switching to his last name and all, he should know that. Or maybe he knows and that’s why he keeps on doing it. It’s all a matter of their knowing each other’s habits.


	8. #8 Wearing Each Other's Clothes

Pippo sulks in his house. He would argue he is not but he’s been miserable since the previous night and another loss with Bologna. This time, the culprit is none other than Genoa and their wonder boy Piatek. And just to top it all, he lost a player to a red card – a direct one. They had done good, they had shown their value. But still, the finishing touch of the ball finally hitting inside the net seemed to be lacking and they were left desperate, like lost and lonely travellers in a desert in search of a life-saving water source. 

And Bobo isn’t even there. 

He is in Miami, Pippo knows that well enough, this isn’t something new. Yet, this might be the first time when he would have wanted to see his large frame invite itself inside his home and give him comfort. 

Well, not the first time. But the first time he actually thinks of Bobo and that is the first thing he thinks of, the first thing he wants. 

Ever since that night after the game against Inter, they’ve been seeing each other a lot, and when they didn’t, they texted or they called each other. Hell, Pippo even made room for Bobo in his day to day schedules. Little things, like calls, or texts, or even videos and photos he sends him – usually funny ones, either of him or his cap, that he turned into a character named Nik for some reason…

In fact, he just… Missed him. Simple as that. 

He was still taken aback by the realisation but for once, he did not try to fight the feeling. Maybe, it was time to put his own pride aside and be mature, try to do better than their first try all these years ago.

It’s cold today, there is a storm outside and his arms get covered in chills, little dots painting his skin. He goes to his bedroom and opens the wardrobe where he puts all his jackets, but at the last minute he stops and glances to the chest of drawers. There is something for his current predicament there, well hidden below several sweaters. He doesn’t even hesitate and goes for it however, his movements are slow and almost solemn, as if he was performing some ancient and magic ritual – Pirlo would surely argue that he actually was. 

It still looks exactly the same as the last time he had clearly laid eyes on it. It went back to the time they resumed their friendship, when they talked again. At the time, Pippo did not even know why he had kept it for all these years, why he had not thrown or burnt it. Maybe, somewhere deep down, there was still a part of him who was not ready to move on, to let go, and he simply forgot willingly about it afterwards. 

He was glad.

He smelled it and although the clear musky scent had long gone – he never would have kept it without washing it, what kind of beast are you – there was still the comforting feeling of the fabric and that of its previous owner. 

Memories flooded his mind. Trainings in cold weather, and careless arms thrown around their neck or back to warm each other whenever they were not running around ; red cheeks and nose from the unforgiving wind, that he had found very kissable and made Bobo’s grumpy face a case of interesting study to Pippo. He remembered a particular snowy morning at the technical centre when they had hid under the blankets, _giggling_ , of all things, silly plans of launching a snowball fight on the oldest players in mind. In the end, they had postponed their great scheme for a moment of human warmth. Classic.

Fond memories. His heart warmed at the thought.

And so, he put on Bobo’s Italy sweater, one of the many he was given throughout his career with the _Nazionale_ but the one he had given to Pippo when he left for Madrid, so he wouldn’t miss him too much. The gift of a young lover to his young boyfriend. 

Maybe that was why Pippo had kept it despite everything.

He went on with his day feeling a little better, breathing in the sweater every once in a while. He needed to get Bobo to wear that thing again, so it would actually smell like him.

God he missed him, how he very much missed him. He could not hide from the truth, it was as plain as day. He missed seeing him barged in, unannounced; he missed hearing his laughter; he missed having him near. All these years ago he had missed him too. But never did he quite fully felt like this. Maybe years made him wiser and allowed himself to accept his own feelings with more ease than before. 

It was late and he was going over his training schedule for the next week, half asleep, when Bobo video-called him. He had barely eaten, just some bresaola with bread and some Plasmons; he was not particularly hungry, he needed to find a solution for his team or else he could go kiss Serie A goodbye. 

“Hey, you.” Pippo said to the bright screen of his phone where he could see Bobo in his dressing room and rubbed his eyes.

“Aw, someone’s sleepy I see.” Bobo cooed at the phone.

“Shut up. I was merely resting my energy.”

“Yeah whatever you say.”

Bobo was beaming from ear to ear and there was no way he would buy any excuse Pippo would feed him. 

“How’s Miami ?”

“Boring, I must say.” He only shrugged.

He sounded blasé. He never was. Bobo was the kind of man who could get excited for any little thing so, this was new. Pippo tried to ignore the longing in his best friend’s eyes, but that did not prevent his stomach from feeling funny. He simply raised an eyebrow in response :

“What ?” 

“Nothing.” Pippo began. “It’s just that you never call anything, especially Miami, boring.” 

“Oi, quit it. It’s just… Wait ! Is that my shirt ?”

Pippo had readjusted his position on the couch and thus, allowed the phone to show more of his top. The coach was completely wrapped up in the sweater and the small number 9, a number they had shared within the _Azzurri_ , clearly visible on the chest. 

“That thing ? I don’t know, found it in a very old garbage bag.” He joked, face visibly amused but fatigue written all over it.

Bobo rolled his eyes but smirked nonetheless. “Real funny, Pippo.”

He let a moment of silence pass and finally replied.

“Yeah, that’s your sweater. The one you gave me before Madrid.”

“Aw, gettin’ sentimental, are we, Inzaghi ?”

He was a true devil, his grin showing the ranges of his white teeth. Pippo wanted both to slap and kiss him – he suspected that was the way with him, anyway.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man. It’s just comfy and warm.”

Bobo almost argued that he had plenty of comfortable and warm clothes in his wardrobe and drawers, he had seen. But he let it slide and smiled fondly. 

“Speaking of clothes. Look at my tie !” 

Right there, standing out of the black fabric, the Bologna crest.

“So that’s where it is ? I've been looking for it for days !” 

It had frustrated him more than he had thought it would and, of course, his schedule had been thrown off.

“I almost got problems with the club when I asked for a new one.”

That was not entirely true. But he had hated admitting he had lost something. 

“I’m sorry.” Bobo sincerely apologized. “I just wanted to show my support. I stand by you, no matter what. Who cares if you lost to Genoa ? I know you’ll figure everything out. Next game you’ll win, I’m sure of it.”

“Against Roma ?” Pippo was a bit doubtful – he put that on the account of his sulking and his day spent in solitude.

“Trust me. You’ll outplay them and win.” 

And here it was, the flutter of his heart. He felt filled with warmth all of sudden and it was all Bobo’s doing. Damn, he couldn’t wait to see him again.  
Minutes passed in silence, both just happy to be together, if only by technology. Bobo had thought the coach had fallen asleep when he spoke :

“Bobo ?”

“Yes ?”

“I miss you.”

There it was. It was the most sincere confession he had made in years. They had not even exchanged such words back in their younger days. It was all about enjoying the moment, have a good time and thinking they would be young forever. Maybe that is why they had ended things on such a bad note. Years had taught him the value of accepting even the downsides of great pieces of his life. 

Bobo’s face softened and his eyes twinkled with the bright lights of his dressing room.

“I miss you too, _Pippo mio_.”

This time, he let his stomach feel however it wanted at the nickname without a single care in the world. 

That night, he slept with a smile, all bundled up in the sweater.


	9. #9 Nursing the Sick One

“I’m fine. Really. Stop fussing.”

Bobo had come three days ago, having just returned from Miami. Pippo had stopped asking why he was the first he came home to rather than his flat in Milan or his family. He had been glad to see him, however, he had missed him terribly. And he had come to terms with that fact. All the rest that this could imply would be dealt with later, in its own time: this was already a giant leap. Having Bobo’s reassuring arms around him after having been starved for days had felt good. For a few seconds, he had forgotten the stress which kept eating him up at the thought of the game against Roma. If his demeanour appeared serene and composed, he was a complete mess on the inside. He knew he was risking a lot this weekend, he very well knew his position could be discussed within the board; hell, the press was already writing him off.

Bobo had offered a release of another kind but this had not helped much. At best, it had given Pippo another headache on trying to figure out how much of it was casual and how much was a result of the recent weeks and the bundle of his feelings.

There was only so much stress you could contain in a human leaf.

But through the night, as they had found sleep in each other’s arms, Bobo had broken down with a devastating fever. He could barely leave the bed and felt weak. That really did not happen a lot. Pippo had only seen him in such a state maybe once or twice over the years they had known each other. Of course he worried. He wanted to drive him to the hospital but Bobo had refused. He wasn’t really a fan. 

Pippo spent the night watching over him, trying to cool the fever down with a cold washing mitt and hoping the paracetamol would have any effect, even the slightest.   
No such luck. He had began coughing at dawn. Pippo had started picking at his fingernails. He had called a doctor who concluded this was some sort of flu, not as strong as the full virus, but with a very strong fever strengthened by the sudden change of temperature between Miami and Bologna. All he needed was rest and his medicines. 

For the next two days, Pippo spent his days planning according to Bobo’s needs. He would sleep on the couch to let him have all the space on the bed, he would wake up early to prepare warm infusions, he would prepare Bobo’s medicine and then check on him and refresh the cloth he had left on his forehead to cool him down. He had even called Simone for their mother’s soup recipe he couldn't remember. His brother did not ask why it was him he had called, he had long stopped questioning Pippo’s ways. 

He always felt guilty leaving for training. He had caressed the idea of calling his parents, his mother more so, so someone would be there for Bobo, but that was too much explaining to do all at once he was not at all ready to face. 

“I’m not fussing. You’re sick, I’m taking care of you.”

Three days later and the game against Roma was here. Bobo was better, only his voice was still hoarse and broken, but he still felt weak after being bed-ridden for so long. 

“You have a match to win this afternoon. You’re gonna be late. And you’re never late.”

“I still have time, don’t worry.” He passed a gentle hand on his forehead and pushed back some strands of hair. He couldn't help the wave of tenderness that overtook him. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you want to fall sick and not go.” He tried to laugh but immediately coughed. Pippo put a reassuring hand on his chest.

“Maybe.” He looked away. He played with the sheets absent-mindedly. “I’m just not very fond of leaving you alone in your state.”

Bobo did not joke about his worry this time. Instead, he took the hand that was on his chest in his. 

“Trust me. I know you’re gonna win. I feel it. Now, go to your team. I’ll be fine.”

He never left Pippo’s thoughts throughout the whole match. Maybe that was why he had not exulted as he had thought he would when his team finally scored their first and second goal of the season. Maybe that was why he had remained so composed after his team’s first victory.

When he had come home, Bobo had moved to the couch and only smirked proudly :

“Told you so.”

He had never been more glad to see his best friend teasing him.


	10. #10 Hair

His mother waves a photo album at him and suddenly, he would rather go back to the Juventus Stadium to lose two-nil yet again than having to sit through his mother showing family photos to Bobo. Well, he does not mind the family photos. He rather dreads the extensive collection of his early days, those of weird t-shirts, horrendous school play costumes and other criminal fashion decisions. 

Bobo, of course, beams, grinning like a lion. Bastard. 

A day after the expected loss against the Old Lady, Pippo is receiving his parents for dinner. Not the grand party he had thought it would be as Simone and his nephews are obviously in Rome – and what a pity, really; he could have counted on the support of the two youngest Inzaghi for the whole night – but his parents are no walk in the park either. 

Especially _not_ when photo albums are involved.

“Aw, look at you, baby Robin Hood.”

Pippo’s eyes would have rolled full circle if they had been able to. Of course that picture was there. He remembers, he had forgotten half his text, this had been embarrassing. He felt lucky there were only photos, he couldn’t think of seeing it again if this had been caught on video. 

He glared at Bobo, which only got his mother to pinch his cheeks with fondness, chastising him for being _“so rude”_ to his friend. What was he supposed to do if he was betrayed by his own mother ? The night was doomed.

However, embarrassing photographs quickly gave place to those of a tinier, second Inzaghi child, with a proud slightly older one. The pictures of Simone and him were some of his favourites. From the very start, he had welcomed his brother as a blessing, too happy to have a friend for life, someone to share his secrets and his passion with. And haircuts. From an early age, Simone had done everything Pippo did and that included trying to look like his exact twin. As kids, they really looked alike, the only giveaway with their height difference. Growing up, they had developed their own features but there was no mistaking that they had fallen from the same tree.

He smiled fondly at the picture taken after Simone’s first football training with Pippo. Both wearing the club’s uniform, the same bowl haircut and not even smiling, they look like an almost perfect copy of each other. His smile broadened at the thought of a similar picture of his eldest nephew, looking in a similar way. 

Pippo’s mother flipped through the pages and surprisingly, it was well furnished with photos of his and Simone’s days as footballers. He had not looked at the album in a long time.

Here he could see a picture of his first call-up for Italy, there the picture taken when Simone had been called up as well. And a couple pages later, here was one with Bobo. He had just scored and his best friend was holding him, bodies on the green grass. His hair was shorter, like nothing he had had before. He remembers that game perfectly. Wales, 2003. They had been so happy that night. 

His heart skips a beat as he looks from the album and sees Bobo’s gaze on him with the same fondness on his face. 

“I remember that.” Pippo almost whispers.

His mother comments on the photo, how she loves it, to see how happy they looked, and unmistakably remarks her son’s haircut.

“I wasn’t much of a fan, I confess.” Bobo admits.

“So you lied to me for fifteen years ?” He scoffed.

“It’s not that I don’t like it.” He begins to make amends. “It’s that… Longer hair is just… You.” He finishes, extending his arm to reach Pippo’s head and pass his fingers through locks of his hair.

He feels chills coming down his spine at the touch. He had always loved Bobo’s rough hands caressing or combing his hair – or both, truth be told. It was a show of intimacy he loved, he never let much people touch his hair – only his nephews were exceptions. There was an underlying trust and sweetness to the act, a wave of calmness that never failed to consume him. Whenever he had been anxious in the past, in the presence of Bobo, there had always been a hand in his hair in between soothing words.

Looking at his eyes, he knows he, too, was reminiscing similar old memories. 

Suddenly, his mother clears her throat and they both jerk up, lost that they had been in their own world. The wooden floor is suddenly fascinating. He almost does not notice the pure delight written all over his mother’s face. Conspiracy ! 

When she leaves the couch to check on her husband, gone smoking outside, they look at each other before they can’t contain their soft laughter any longer. Way to feel like a teenager again. 

“Promise me one thing, will you ?” Bobo asks.

“Hm ?”

“Never cut your hair again.”

He feels his inside warming up.

“That’s a mistake I won’t do twice, don’t worry.”

Bobo’s features grow lascivious : “Besides… there are a few other reasons to keep them long, if you see what I mean.”

“You have no decency, Vieri, you're insufferable.” Pippo hits his chest with the back of his hand. 

But he’s smiling. Even laughing. They both are.

It’s becoming more and more common and he is fine with that.


	11. #11 Tea and/or Coffee

It had been so long since he last woke up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. In fact, he could barely remember such an occasion, not including his occasional visits to his parents in Piacenza. 

It is nice. 

For once, someone else – Bobo – woke up before him and went ahead making breakfast – or coffee at least. He is only half surprised to find himself be the one left laying in bed. They’ve played three times in the span of a week and, although it is nothing new, he is not as young as he would like to think and being a coach proved to him how much more tiring and stressful this could be. Bobo joked about the greying hair his new career had given him but there was some truth in it.  


Come on. The game against Udinese left and they would go back to that one match a week rhythm. 

He groaned and sighed while he pushed himself off the bed. He put on sweatpants and a t-shirt – morning air was becoming more and more treacherous with each passing day – and he went to the kitchen. It was a bright open space with a large patio door on one side and, on the other, a large dining table. 

And Bobo was there, placing a warm cup of coffee on the table, alongside fruits, biscuits and jams. And two Plasmons next to Pippo’s cup. 

He had stopped on the threshold of the room, basking in the view of his best friend – well, really more than that by now, although they were still dancing around the whole idea – preparing breakfast for the two of them, for him. He could not help the sleepy smile that graced his face.

Bobo turned and noticed him “Sleeping Beauty is finally awake.”

Pippo merely chuckled and shook his head. He walked to the table, still with a soft expression on his face.

“I made your coffee like you take it : a third of a tea spoon of sugar and a tea spoon of milk.” He looked at him expectantly, as if to say he hoped it would be good.

Pippo’s chest tightened at the mere thought Bobo still remembered his weird – Pirlo’s words, not his – coffee habits. He grabbed the cup and took a sip. 

Perfect. Almost, but he was in too good of a mood to care. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm liquid burning his aching throat after yet another night of a stuffed up nostril that would immediately vanish when he would wake up.

He put the cup down and went to Bobo, slowly. He did not think twice of his actions as he slipped a hand on his hip and grazed his lips in his cheek.

“Thanks, Bobo.” His voice was merely above a whisper.

Bobo’s face flushed slightly and he wrapped an arm around Pippo’s back.

“Anytime.” 

Mornings might become their new favourite moments.


	12. #12 Cooking Together

“Cooking… Really ?”

Pippo looked in disbelief at his phone whose screen showed a smiling Bobo, proud of his suggestion and ready to defend it against the scepticism of the lanky man.

“Why not ? We may not be together physically speaking but technology allows us simultaneity. That’d be nice.”

“But, I don’t have all the ingredients.” Pippo argued.

“Oh, don’t give me this, this is a ten minutes car ride to the nearest supermarket. I paid attention.”

Pippo made a face. He really did have an answer to everything. He was not mad, though. He never really was with Bobo, especially these days; this is merely a case of amused annoyance. And, yes, it’s true that the prospect of doing an activity together via video-calls, where they might be, was appealing to him. He just was not exactly sure how cooking could work like that. 

But that was worth a try, right ? 

 

“Is this supposed to look orange ?” 

They’ve been cooking for the last hour, propping their phones against a stack of books, or a bowl, so as to let them see each other from head to waist, cutting, seasoning and adjusting fires. They are not particularly aiming at a fancy dish but there is the question of the sauce for the meat, and that’s where it gets complicated. Apparently. At least for Pippo.

He only winced in horror looking at his strange looking saucepan where a peculiar and unsavoury bright orange liquid stirs, while Bobo was trying to contain his laughter. He was very bad at this. 

Soon, his vibrant laughter resonated through the speakers of Pippo’s phone. It’s his turn to chuckle when Bobo realises he has burnt the meat. 

Useless, they’re completely useless. Cooking wise, they have a long way to go and they are pretty sure they won’t ever get too far, just enough to have varied dishes and woo guests from time to time. 

When they calm down, Pippo realises it never has been about cooking. It was just about being together and doing something fun, making memories. When he comes to this conclusion, he has this twinkle in his eyes; he sees the same in Bobo’s. 

He can’t wait for the next odd adventure Bobo will suggest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. Uni is eating a lot of my time and I still have a challenge to finish ^^'


	13. #13 Washing Dishes

He shouldn’t think twice about it. He should not focus on it that much. It really should not get to him, now. It was silly, it seemed he was discovering how things worked and that he was an inexperienced newbie who suddenly realised the hardship and obstacles of the path he had chosen. 

He found himself pathetic. 

And to make things worse, he had discovered he had left some dishes in the sink and now, he couldn’t possibly go to sleep without taking care of it first. It only fuelled his frustration more and he scrubbed and scrubbed vehemently, until plates, dish and cutlery were pristine, and he wouldn’t let it go even then and just kept going endlessly. 

Bobo was here, already fast asleep in the bedroom, wrapped up in one of Pippo’s favourite blanket. He must have waited for him, the bed was not even unmade.   
He had given him a key. 

Pippo tried to tell himself – or reassure, more so – that this was only because it was simply more convenient whenever Bobo was in Bologna, that it was only because he had asked him to tend to the few plants decorating the home, courtesy of his mother – and she would never let him live so long if he let her flowers die. But the truth was, it was more convenient for him, really. For both of them. Bobo barely bothered with knocking on doors or texting when he would come – lately, Pippo just assumed he would, inevitably – so it was not even that big of a change anyway. 

Glasses and plates clashed together in the sink as one slipped from his hand. The water was burning hot, his fingers were red and itchy. He could not care less, Maybe, he thought, he deserved it. He did not see the kitchen anymore, he did not feel the hot water on his skin. All he could focus on was the loss against Cagliari. His players had been way too naive on the first goal, it was unacceptable, and it had only went downhill afterwards. Way to stop the positive spiral after their second win against Udinese… 

On the journey home, Simone had texted him. Pippo worried about him too. Lazio was having a rough patch. He knew it was not the first and it would surely not be the last, but he always wanted to make sure his little brother was fine, may he be five or forty-two. 

He had been scrubbing one dish in particular now but the stains remain. He was scrubbing so quickly, contracting his arms to the point of pain, but without success. He cursed and went on, being louder and louder, without meaning to or realising, until he heard a sleepy voice :

“Pippo ?”

The blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and he rubbed his eyes to chase away his tiredness. Something broke into Pippo and he just sent the sponge flying into the sink as frustrated tears collected into his eyes, before he looked away.

This served as a wake up call to Bobo and, alert, he joined Pippo as fast as he could. 

“Hey...” He grabbed his hands that he had let under the burning water and turned off the tap. “Stop. Stop.” He said, softer, caressing the wounded flesh by tracing slow circles. “There is no need for harm, here. Ssssh.”

Pippo’s hands were almost trembling. His whole body almost was. He was tired, he had barely slept the past few days – and knowing himself, he would not find sleep before the edge of dawn, he had eaten scarcely and all this building up combined to the frustration were taking a toll on him. He just wanted a moment of undisturbed peace and clear his head of all of his worries. 

He threw himself into Bobo’s arms. 

He sniffled and tried to wipe his tears on the soft fabric of Bobo’s pyjama shirt, which he gripped tightly with his hands. 

“I’m sorry.” His muffled voice said. His breathing was uneven from all the tension.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Pippo. It’s okay, I’m here. Just breathe.”

He put a hand in his long hair, tread through the interlaced locks and slowly massaged his scalped. Pippo sighed loudly at the touch and regained a normal heart rate little by little. But he never let go of the shirt. He breathed in every few times, just to get a sense of the comforting smell of Bobo. 

Silence reigned in the room and it was only broken by the soft sound of Bobo’s lips brushing Pippo’s forehead, his temples, his brows. Pippo relaxed and his gripped on the shirt loosened, his knuckles white. He made a face when Bobo’s blew over his eyes. Opening them back, he saw the bigger man take his hands one by one and giving them a kiss each. When he was done, he smiled :

“Here, magic kisses. You’re as good as new.” 

Pippo could not help but chuckle. Bobo never ceased to surprise him. 

“You feel better ?” His face was all serious now, worry written in his eyes.

They had not cared as much before. They had been there for each other through down times, of course, but it had never been this profound, as viscerally genuine as today. Shivers went down his spine at the thought. The older, the wiser, that was what people said, right ?

“Yes. Thank you.” He whispered, resting his forehead against Bobo’s rough cheek for a brief instant. 

“Now,” Bobo began, placing a gentle hand on Pippo’s shoulder. “There are still dish waiting to be washed. Let’s do that.”

They finished up quickly, in an agreeable silence. Once they were done, Bobo wrapped the blanket around Pippo’s shoulders and they went to bed. 

And if they kissed once in the dark, none of them minded. And if their lips kept meeting in a gentle dance, none of them would blame it on exhaustion or any other factor. And if Pippo brushed his mouth one last time against Bobo’s before falling asleep, none of them would have it any either way, none of them would change a single thing.


	14. #14 Homework or Jobwork

International break dawns again, after that fateful loss against Cagliari. After that eventful night back in Bologna. They have not talked about it, not yet. They do not have any regret, however; it is how it was supposed to be, they think. Deep down, they both knew it would come down to this eventually; they just shared too much for the situation to be any different. And unlike their younger days, they both know they will actually talk about, they know they will have that conversation and go on from there. 

It does not mean it is not as scary as it was back then. It is, perhaps, even scarier. He is getting old, the weight of the years are heavy on his shoulders and such matters are a painful reminder. And yet, they both feel this sense of serenity in the air, they are at peace with the incoming discussion, when they are ready. 

With international break, Simone has asked Pippo if he could have the kids for the weekend. He does not even have to ask for the oldest of the Inzaghi brothers for him to agree. He is way too pleased at the prospect of having his nephews home. He has not seen them since the summer and Simone’s wedding, they will have grown up a lot already; Tommasso not yet a man but almost, and Lorenzo with surely a lot more energy and questions than ever before.

And here they are, all round the table, working on the homework both of the young Inzaghi have to do – Simone insisted. 

English homework. Pippo has lost count of the times he fought with what they call Shakespeare’s language. His mother’s cooking was not the only thing that convinced him not to cross the Channel and discover the Premier League. 

“This couldn’t have been maths, could it ?” He complains, much to Bobo’s and his oldest nephew’s amusement. 

With an accounting diploma, he was always the maths expert of the family, he had earned that title long ago. But foreign languages have always remained, well… foreign to him. At least, Lorenzo’s homework is not too difficult. And since when five years old had homework, in fact ? Pippo remembers he was always out, playing football, at the same age. That might be because he did not really care and feigned being deaf at every mention of homework. 

But that was not the point. Obviously.

“See, here. That sentence ? You know the gist, but there’s one mistake. See, English is kinda weird like that, you don’t use the future here, but the present tense, in fact. That’s because...”

Bobo’s explanation slowly fade away from Pippo’s hear. All he could see was his… What… Best friend ? Lover ? - he’s not yet sure how to refer to Bobo – helping his nephew with his work, clearly knowing what to do and Tommasso drinking his every word. 

The Inzaghi family does have a tendency to fall for the most prominent member of the Vieri family; that is yet another proof.

Pippo is mesmerized. He follows the soft movements of his lips – and remembers how much he had missed kissing them – he follows the crease of his brow when he is looking for a particular word or phrase, he sees the gentle pride in these dark eyes whenever his nephew understands and gets it right. Chills run down his body; Bobo has never been so beautiful than on this particular sunny early afternoon. 

He’s brought back to earth by the youngest, sitting on his lap, who pulls at the sleeve of his sweater. Right. Knowing how to introduce yourself cannot wait.

OoOoO

Homework done, they played football outside – when do they not, would be an interesting question – and Bobo soon faced an overpowering team of Inzaghi men. He should have known they would ally together at some point. 

He had not laughed like that in a long time. Carefree. Happy. Genuinely happy. 

When Lorenzo had begun asking for his uncle’s attention and latching onto him, time for a nap was well overdue. Pippo took him into his arms and calmed his unrest with soothing words and soon, his head was resting on Pippo’s shoulder, almost asleep. 

He catches Bobo’s gaze and he smiles. 

While Tommaso goes for a walk around the neighbourhood, the rest of them go back inside. They would have gone to the bedroom to let the child sleep but he argues with his small and sleepy voice : he does not want to spend a single minute without Pippo. And not without Bobo either. He kept asking for the man he had just met and already liked dearly – Grimaces and tenderness were an unexpected successful cocktail, but after all, it was Bobo, no one should be surprised. 

Seated side by side on the couch, Pippo and Bobo held on the youngest Inzaghi’s hands, who was now fully asleep. They both were silently smiling, too afraid to spoil the moment and wake the little one up. 

Everything felt good, everything felt easy. Maybe that is why Pippo confessed, without a second thought.

“I don’t regret it at all. It wasn’t just a spur of the moment thing. I’ve been thinking about it for some time now.”

There was no need to explicitly state what he was referring too, they both knew, it was undeniable. 

“Good.” Bobo simply answers before brushing his fingertips against Pippo’s temple. “Glad to see I’m still irresistible." 

“Oh, shut up.” And to further prove his command, he silenced him with a kiss, long and sweet, almost chaste. 

And everything seemed to fall into place. It was a matter of walking together now, uncertainty stretching over the patch except for one thing : they would have each other now and, more importantly : unlike their younger selves, they both knew it.


	15. #15 Family Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry this took me so long. Uni has started again and it's hectic so updates will come late. But don't worry, I will finish this challenge, I'm having way too much fun ! And let's keep in mind : I'm officially halfway there :D !

Pippo gave the weekend off to his team, have them relax, spend quality time with their loved ones. His mother had invited him and Bobo – why she mentioned Bobo as if she knew he was still in Bologna, Pippo preferred not to ask. And anyway, he had declined. Bobo’s parents had beat her to it; they were organizing a big barbecue – leave it to the Vieri family to organise an Australian dinner on the other hemisphere where the sunny days are gone and not coming like on the other side of the planet. 

They have not said anything about them, about their recent development. Except being suspicious of his mother for reading him far too well for his liking, Pippo was certain nobody knows. 

Well.

Maybe Simone had his ideas. His youngest nephew was quite eager to talk about Bobo and the fact he took a nap in _“uncle’s room”_ at some point whenever he had the chance. 

He also may have mentioned a thing or two to Nesta, but he had not said any names – did he really need to, though ? 

In any case, Pippo was restless for the whole ride to the Vieri house. He kept moving in his seat, scratching his cheek or his ear or his nose, fumbling with his hands. At some point, Bobo had put his hand on his thigh in an effort to calm him down and it had barely moved ever since. 

When they arrived, he let out a breath he did not know he had held and suddenly, he was anxious again. He was not even sure why. He knew Bobo’s parents, he knew his extended family : they had took part in many dinners together, so he did not know why, all of a sudden, he dreaded – or rather stressed over – seeing them again.

Except, he knew why. He was not simply coming as their son’s good friend – at least, they both knew he was not coming with this status. And that made the whole difference. 

Neither of them moved even though the car was parked and turned off, both looking ahead of them, not really seeing the trees lining the street and scattered autumn leaves. 

“You ready ?”

“Are you ?” Pippo answered with a question of his own.

“Not really. No.”

“Neither am I.”

They chuckled at the stupidity of the situation. They might have been forty-five but, bringing someone home, especially someone who had and still meant a lot to each of them, was still an experience, an exposure, that made them feel like teenagers all over again, unsure of their parents’ reaction and possible approval – or rejection. 

“We don’t have to say anything.” Bobo whispered.

“We don’t have to say anything.” Pippo echoed.

“We could, though.”

“We could.”

They both nodded, as if each in their own world and yet, both together, sharing the same thoughts. They climbed out of the car and interlaced their fingers for a brief moment, squeezing to give themselves courage. 

As always with them, they would improvise – maybe the only part of Pippo’s life he left unplanned.

And after all, they really did not have to talk to tell everyone. Their lingering glances, their bickering, their gentle touches or what they thought was a silent crossing of the corridor to reach the other’s room at night – really, they should learn how to stop arguing about how long Pippo took to come and join Bobo while they’re still on the threshold, Max, Bobo’s brother, had slipped at breakfast while the three men were enjoying a cup of coffee. 

Of course, their budding relationship would need to get accustomed to, it was new for everyone and each needed time to process this new – or was it ever really given their past ? - information. And seeing their scream of joy and tight embrace, celebrating Cristiano Biraghi’s late winner, they could have melted the coldest of heart and mind.


	16. #16 Trying Something New

“We should go out, tonight.” Bobo offered while they were both working – Pippo planning the next game against Torino and Bobo working on some numbers of Sweet Years. 

They rarely went out and they rarely had in the past. It was too complicated, being public figures, to simply enjoy a date to the restaurant or somewhere else like any other couple could – and there were still bigots out there who could very well be ill-intentioned. Not that they would not fight back if it ever came to that but it was just another factor that made the whole deal of going out more complicated than your average couple. 

They barely thought about these considerations, though. It was always there, looming over them, but they had become comfortable enough and they knew each other enough to acknowledge the boundaries and just forget they even were that. In fact, the rare dates out came more from the facts their schedule had always been crazy and once at home, they just preferred to stay inside, enjoy each other’s company and closeness, either out of laziness or simply not wanting to share the other with the world any more than they already had to by both being professional players in some of the best clubs in Europe. 

In fact, they were just not used to go out, to have dates, except for the occasional reunion at one of Bobo’s restaurants in Milan which, technically, was not really a date.

“I was thinking we could do something new like go to the theatre see a play or an opera.” Bobo went on as the other kept silent.

“The theatre ?” Pippo asked his boyfriend – oh what a thrilling rush it was to actually realise that yes, they were boyfriends – incredulous.

It was not as if he does not want to go, it could be… nice ? Maybe. But the fact was, they had never gone see a play together. And to be fair, the number of times they went on their own could be counted on their hands. It was not for a lack of culture or open-mindedness as some people with misplaced pride would say. It was simply not a thing that particularly interested them. And as such, it surprised Pippo that Bobo would suggest it. 

“I know it’s not really the first thing I would have thought of but that’s the point. At our age, we still have a lot to discover.”

“You make it sound like we’re already decrepit.” Pippo deadpans

“Talk for yourself, old man.” Bobo retorted and grabbed Pippo’s notebook, obviously prompting a reaction from him.

The lanky man rose from his seat and went after his stolen good which Bobo held high above with his arm raised. Pippo was barely smaller than him – but oh, how he loved saying he was the tallest, even if it was by an inch – and yet, he could not reach his notebook, his boyfriend – again, what a thrill to be able to think this – was moving too much. So he did the only thing he knew would work.

He kissed him. 

And just as he had planned, Bobo melted and forgot about the notebook, which Pippo promptly stripped from his hands, winking when he put an end to the kiss.  
“You sneaky bastard !” Bobo protested. “If you think you’re gonna walk free after that, you’re wrong. Come here !”

He grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close, kissing him before Pippo had any time to utter any complain – which soon fell short on his lips as soon as he felt Bobo’s tongue teasing his.

It was exhilarating, the freedom they enjoyed, doubts all left on the side of the road, and just thinking that they could call each other boyfriends and that they could kiss whenever they wanted to. Every touch and every kiss was an explosion of sensations they knew by heart and yet, had to rediscover all at the same time. It was the surprising smooth skin on Bobo’s neck; where Pippo would place a hand; it was the feeling of his strong hands on his waist, not moving an inch; it was the feeling of their nose brushing and their breath mingling.

“Okay. Let’s do this.” Pippo whispered against Bobo’s lips as they parted. 

And off they went to the theatre, like two explorers on an adventure. 

 

The fact that they had managed to get tickets was apparently a miracle according to the clerk at the ticket office. They really had no idea what they were signing for, except it was a musical and apparently a very popular one in Italy. If Pippo focused hard enough, he could remember someone, a teammate, telling him about it years ago. 

Love, lust, tragedies and deaths later – french people in the fifteenth century are really dramatic – they dared not speak a word as they had gotten far more involved in the story than they would have thought. They sniffled one after the other, wiping their eyes as discreetly as possible – which came across as awkardly obviously. 

“That theatre is very dusty.” Pippo tried to justify himself

“Agreed” Bobo nodded.

They hid their clasped hands under their jackets.

The theatre was not so bad, after all. Especially when you had someone to survive through the misery that was act II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the great game is obviously : guess the musical :D ! Which, shouldn't be too hard if a) you know me a bit and b) you know the most famous musical in Italy (which is actually French !)


	17. #17 Kisses

There had been the languid, dirty kisses. They were both young, a golden future ahead on their path; they were indestructible. Open mouthed, tongues mingling in a teasing battle, they entertained themselves by having such displays in the most improbable and daring places, just because they could. Rino had been so mad to find his room locked and his key nowhere to be found once, their obscene moans echoing faintly through the door. He never found out it was them, everyone said he must have dreamt the sounds – which only made him more murderous and the rest of the italian team in high spirits. 

Oh, those were the times, yes. 

The times of passionate and hasty reunions in Coverciano, loud kisses, promptly followed by the sound of clothes thrown to the ground and their complaints whenever the task took too long. Their lips were always hungry, always swollen. At some point, they had stopped caring about the noise and unapologetically went on with their heated intercourse – nobody ever said anything beyond teasing insinuations so why bother trying to be silent ? They only were careful when the coach was sleeping on the same floor, at which point, they would sneak out and find an appropriate broom closet, elevator, you name it. Only Rino, again, would complain – they loved it when he was their neighbour – but he loved Pippo too much to really hold a grudge against him. 

There had been their trademark kisses on the cheek. They came naturally to them, maybe way too often for complete carefulness but people quickly had dismissed the gesture as their usual show of their _“strong bond”_. They had laughed many a time at the description. They never admitted it, maybe because they thought the other knew or maybe because they just did not want to put words on what they had, but kissing their cheek was a way for them to resist the urge to pull the other in for a kiss, with no intention of caring of what people would say. But they could not have afforded it, not now, not yet. 

Talking, or lack thereof, about their relationship probably was what had doomed them amongst their own personal ambition. Pippo knew that now, so did Bobo. 

They still kissed each other’s cheek, a lot. It still bore the same meaning whenever they were in public but, this time, there was also a lingering tenderness and show of attachment which had been absent in their younger, wilder days. They did it more often as well, in Pippo’s home or the privacy of a quiet room, and faint smiles would often accompany the gesture. 

They still shared open-mouthed, loud, kisses – whoever said libido was lessening past your forties was an idiot – but, again, there was something else, something more, this time. It was the way they would slow down, in between ragged breaths, and take the time to share a long and sweet kiss, each savouring the taste of the other’s mouth, their tongues gently grazing their bottom lip from time to time, while their fingers got lost in their hair or caressing their neck and shoulders.  


There were new types of kisses too. The feather-light kisses on their body, a hot and soft breath enticing chills, when they were in the mood for teasing or simply something slower – learning to take their time had been a true discovery. There was an undeniable feeling of adoration in the gesture, it was their way to put words, remaining to be spoken, into actions. 

They had yet to take the next step – they knew they would, they knew by now it was a mutual feeling – but they still needed to take their time, come to terms with the idea. It was one thing to think about the words in the privacy of their mind but it was another to accept them completely, let go of their doubts and fears, and confess them. 

All in due time.


	18. #18 Hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look at that ! I'm not dead ! Got a bit of writer's block all week. So a short chapter but a chapter nonetheless. Let's get back to finish this challenge in the best way possible !

If there was one thing that could be said about Bobo, it was that he was very much a hug person. Whether he greeted friends, showed any display of joy or just hanged out with people, he had always an arm thrown around someone’s neck or someone’s back.

And there was a particular someone with whom it had been multiplied ten times.

It was no secret, the press had even talked extensively about the “couple” they made as strikers with the Nazionale – little did they know they were actually closer from the truth than they thought; it never failed to amuse the pair.

And yet, surprisingly enough, hugs did not come easily as part of their intimacy. At least, it did not use to be. It was one thing to be on a pitch, high on adrenaline and words left unsaid, but it was another to actually express such tenderness a hug conveyed. They had had arms thrown around their shoulders, a hand grazing one’s back. But hugs were primarily reserved for the pitch. 

Maybe, it was the only time they had been free from their thoughts and acted on instinct. But they had never really talked about them or what they meant afterwards. They always had assumed they both knew, they always had assumed they did not need to put a voice to their feelings. 

They always had assumed they would be young and unbreakable forever.

That another way was possible, it had not even crossed their minds – important topics regarding their relationship rarely had – and it had only paved the way for more unspoken feelings and sensations which eventually pulled them apart. 

They knew that, now.

_(Bobo gently slipped his arms around Pippo from behind, distracting him for a minute from his work, nuzzling his neck, smiling.)_

They realised that, now.

_(Pippo slightly tiptoed to pulled Bobo down for a hug after a tiring day of work, plane travel and blowing nose, kissing his temple softly.)_

It was surprising to finally get the precious comfort of each other’s arms after having mainly experienced it on the pitch, out of breath, sticky, muddy and stinking. 

_(They fell in the garden once, while playing football, and rolled together on the grass like two protagonists of a romantic film, laughing and out of breath – just like old times.)_

It was a marvel to simply bask in each other’s warmth, caress an arm or an hand distractedly, simply knowing they were here, together.

_(They decided Pippo needed a more functional and comfortable couch than a designer one when they fell asleep on it, all tangled up and opened mouth, and woke up with an atrocious stiffness and ache in their muscles.)_


	19. #19 Forgetting Something

“Pippo !” The voice echoed through the big house.

Said Pippo stopped scribbling on his notebook and his planner and took a short second to exhale slowly before he stood up from the desk and went to find the origin of the plea. 

It was Bobo, of course. He was off work for some time and as such, basically lived in Pippo’s house without really asking. Not that he needs to or that the lanky man will complain : they have their moments but the more time they can spend time the better they can figure out their budding romantic relationship and go hand in hand in the same direction – or else, Marina Inzaghi will come herself knock some sense – and the idea of grandchildren - into their head.

“What is it ?” Pippo asked to an agitated Bobo.

“I have no signal because of the storm and the wifi does not work, I need the password. Gimme the password.” He answered. 

He used that a lot, internet. Pippo knew enough about being a public figure that having a virtual presence was strongly encouraged but he had yet to figure out how everything worked exactly and he was not particularly fond of it anyway. Unlike Bobo.

Pippo scoffed. “Bobo. I don’t know how internet works. I don’t know what the password is.”

“You did not write it down ?”

Silence. Bobo squinted at his boyfriend with a sour expression.

“Well… No. I didn’t think it was necessary.”

Bobo’s eyes could have rolled out of their orbits. The coach tried to contain his incoming laughter with success – more or less. 

“Yes, laugh, idiot. That’s truly gonna help me.”

Pippo took no offense, Bobo meant none; it was the way they worked together and they knew perfectly how to read their words. They were good at this : not poets, but knowing what their words implied. That’s why the silences, however loud they had been, had killed their first relationship.

“And what am I supposed to do now ?” 

Pippo bent down and circled his arms around Bobo’s chest, resting his chin on one of his shoulders. 

“Read, like anyone else.” He smirked against his neck. “There was that thing we used to do as well, with Simo’, when we were kids. And not able to play football that is.” 

An hour later and they were sitting under a roof of soft blankets, surrounded by comfy pillows, hot drinks near and Pippo sitting between Bobo’s legs, his back against his chest, reading. His low voice and their makeshift castle lulled them into a contented state of warmth and sleepiness. 

Outside, the storm and the heavy rain were raging on, drumming against the roof and the windows, installing a soft rhythm to the otherwise silent house apart from their gentle chuckles, muffled by their soft castle, when one of them would comment on the story or the characters’ actions. Nothing would have interrupted the moment. Not memories of a time when they had lacked such proximity and intimacy that did not rhymed with bedroom – or any room and surface for that matter, as long as they fitted together -, not the unsteady steps of Bologna in Serie A, not Bobo’s hectic work schedule and travels, not Pippo’s clockwork plans. Nothing. They only had to enjoy their moment, forgotten from time and space, protected in their safe cocoon.


	20. #20 A Heated Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise ! Never let it be said Linguistics class is not inspiring azqesrdtfygh

They had always had arguments. Hell, it would have been weird if they had not. Put two star strikers competing for a spot in the starting eleven of the national team – later on, only a spot in the team – and it was only bound to happen at some point, if only because of the competition. 

Football had brought them together and it had tore them apart. 

Their own characters got in the way, of course, they had it coming long before ambitions crept from behind the door. They had only amplified their issues. They had always talked, but never seriously, never had they voiced their own feelings – they were young and unbreakable and believed they would remain so until the end of times. In the end, they had barely talked, period : too much on their mind, too many wasted occasions to sat together and put everything into words. 

After the initial pain of their breakup – but was it really that when they had never even uttered the word _"relationship"_ ? – Pippo had often wondered what would have happened, had they been responsible adults for once. Injuries and getting sidelined more and more as time wore on had given him plenty of time to rethink his life and look back on his past. He had not dared then to call Bobo and try to repair their bond sooner. 

Maybe it was better this way. Had he called sooner, maybe they would not be here today, trying to make things work and _communicate_.

Pippo still believed, somewhere deep inside, that it was all a matter of stars aligned – he can already hear Pirlo snarking if he ever told him so. 

They still fight today, not doing so would be even unhealthier than their previous romantic bond. But it’s what it means that changed, what lingers under the rug of their argument.

_(Pippo comes to hate whenever Bobo leaves for the States._

_“You don’t care about me.”_

_“Of course, I do. I fucking care about you, Pippo. I thought you knew that by now !” His gaze is hurt, inbetween the layers of anger and his raised voice._

_He feels his nose sting and the sudden urge to shut his eyes tight, he feels the tears forming behind his closed eyelids._

_“Then why do you keep leaving me ? I’m not that strong.”_

_There it is. His throat hurt from snapping and trying to contain his emotions. He’s all shaken up, trembling even. That might be the first time he truly shows him his unapologetic vulnerability._

_When Bobo comes back a week and a half later, he tells him they agreed to change the terms of his contract. Less time in the US, more time with Pippo.)_

They still fight today, not doing so would even worry them. But it’s what it makes them realise that changed. A sudden awareness of what they had never thought about, what they had never imagined the other to feel.

_(“For fuck’s sake, when’s the last time you had a proper meal, or even a snack for that matter ?”_

_“It’s not important.” Pippo barely lifts his eyes from the TV screen and the notebook on his lap._

_“It is.”_

_“Stop fussing, you shouldn’t care so much.”_

_“But I do !” His shout takes Pippo by surprise. “I do because, newsflash : I care about you, I worry about you. I might be fussing but I know how you can get and I don’t want to come home one day and see you passed out or worse.”_

_Pippo comes to the kitchen with no complains and doesn’t leave Bobo’s hand for the rest of the day.)_

They still fight today. Only, not in the same way that they used to. 

It warms Pippo’s heart to think about it.


	21. #21 Road Trips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I'm not dead !

Pippo has always loved driving.

It shouldn’t come to a surprise to anyone, really. He has always loved being in control so, as soon as he had turned eighteen, he had taken on the exam and paraded around Piacenza, in the old little car his first wages had paid, for weeks on ends. He had looked so proud and so carefree. His mother could show you pictures of a lankier – that was apparently possible – and younger Pippo posing embarrassingly in front of that car, if you asked. Which he’d rather not. 

Bobo taking a picture of it – _“s’just for me !”_ he had argued – was already bad enough not to add someone else on the list of people who had seen these cursed photographs. 

He loved driving. He loved the freedom that came with it, the ability to follow whatever direction he saw fit : make a detour to cross that particular street he found peaceful with its neatly arranged cobblestones, slow down around a river or a sea and simply marvel at its beautiful and glimmering blue. 

They’re all part of his routine, though. You’d rarely catch him turn the wheel on a hazard and spontaneously follow a direction he is not yet sure of. 

But, at least, he gets to decide how, when and where he drives. He gets to decide to put on some music or not, how loud it will be. He gets to decide if he wants to hang the plastic Plasmon replica Simone got him as a joke, to the rear-view mirror. Who even sells such things ?

(Of course he hangs it up. It’s Plasmon. It’s _Simone_.)

He thinks of Bologna when he drives. He thinks about Bologna all the time, to be fair. At first, driving with a break from the trainings and tactics and reunions with his staff and match preparations. But the rough patch the club is stuck in is too strong to leave him alone in the car. It’s always nagging at him, from behind the driver’s seat, a street corner or a traffic light. A chorus of _he could have done this_ and _the boys could have reacted like that_. 

He doesn’t want to think about it but he cannot escape it. 

All alone, in his car, he meticulously goes over all the little things that went wrong during a game, during practice. He’s always been like that, how he spent countless hours on old and fuzzy VHS – going to DVDs had been a revolution his friends had joked about – studying every single details of his opponents that could help him score a goal.

It became overwhelming, though. As much as he tried not to read papers, journalists never gave him rest during press conference. 

It was worse when Bobo wasn’t there, he realised. 

He called, of course, and his voice was always a warm moment in his lonely days, but it wasn’t the same as having him near, as having him doing complete nonsense just to make him smile. 

So, really, it came to no surprise that, one morning, when Bobo happened to be free, he came up to him and gave him his car keys, slowly :

“Drive me ?” He said in a light, hopeful, voice.

Really, it was no surprise Bobo accepted without a word.


End file.
